


Time for Cinchy!

by TheGoldenShadow



Category: My Little Pony: Equestria Girls
Genre: Gen, Humiliating Job, Kinda, Pies, Self-Acceptance, Working as a Clown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27514327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenShadow/pseuds/TheGoldenShadow
Summary: Having your own show helps, but Abacus Finch still can't separate her new life as a working clown from the person she feels she should be.
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

Damn Pinkamena.

Damn Cup Cake and her precious little circle of tired mothers and single parents.

Damn all of their reviews on Squeal. But then, I suppose I also have them to thank, at the end of the day.

Without any more food on my plate, I am forced to acknowledge the sorry fact that my lunch break will soon be over. How quickly an hour passes by, when you’re not being forced to juggle bowling pins and slap cream cakes into your face.

Such is the life of Cinchy the Clown.

Like any occupation, time is a magnificent healer. Or a medic, in my case; enough to numb the pain until it is no longer felt as harshly as it once was. A doctor implies that they are there to heal you, after all.

A medic merely makes you feel a little better until help can arrive. A medic would surely grow tired after even six months on the same patient, however.

The metaphor escapes me, though the definition feels as accurate a label as I can place on my role as Cinchy the Clown. It had felt excruciatingly painful, in the beginning. A scar to my record, to everything I had hoped to achieve by this point in my life. Like the very tip of a white-hot knife through fine silk. Something that I was so sure would never heal.

But time is merciful, in that regard. Routine, also. Witch each appointment, my tolerance to my alter ego became only that slight bit more bearable. Each new act felt like less of a deep cut.

Now, I suppose it is like any other job held by someone who wishes they could drop it. Unwanted, but required to survive.

At this point, my investment has certainly outweighed any social torture a child’s party can inflict. I have rigorously studied new acts, new ways to entertain. Learning to juggle had been simple enough, but it offered several new work shifts that I otherwise would have not been eligible for. Learning to do so again with larger props opened several doors to public events. Shipping myself around for parties had been one thing, but now I’m in demand.

Regardless of occupation, that sparks something pleasant in my ego. To some, I am a required aspect for a children’s party. Much to the ire of my former colleagues.

Again, such a pleasant spark.

But it is still a job, and I most definitely consider it as such. It is not a passion, and any fulfilment I gain from performing for simple people is the equally simple reward of pay and respect as an actor at the end of the day. Even if that respect is limited to certain circles.

Leaving the role so soon after investing in Pinkamena’s little friend to design an outfit of some standard would also be foolish. The supplied ‘uniforms’ from my parent company are supposedly well made, but the fabric is cheap, and the extra spaces supplied in said uniform are basic, at least in terms of what I found professional clowns to use. Something with a bit more of a unique flair to my own act had certainly impressed the senior staff; self-improvement usually does for simple jobs such as this. My age likely played a part too. Many of my fellow clowns are young, as evenly split as the male and females seem to be. My age only helps add to my uniqueness, separating me from the casual product.

To compare myself to a fine wine would be ridiculous given the role itself, but I am a higher standard of beverage, nonetheless.

I finish my own drink to bring a final end to my lunch break and push away from the table. My makeup will need reapplied before the next act, but it is far better to put up with it during a break than to waste time cleaning it off. Cleaning and reapplication take time, and less time means less relaxation.

In this line of work, I will take any moment of relaxation I can muster.

But even I cannot halt the flow of time, which means back to work. The two o’clock showing needs prepared for. This one especially so.

I have the dressing room down to a fine art. Having access to a personal room in a static location is helpful, in that regard. Whilst renting members of staff to small events is the most common practice for my employer, more permanent venues are also free game. In my case, that venue is _Maple Syrups Happy House of Pancake Fun_. I was seemingly their first pick, and to have somewhere where I am physically employed is beyond appreciated. No longer am I required to drive here and there to the houses of random customers, or indeed their place of work.

Children can be vile, but that is nothing compared to some of the parents. Crinkled clothes, cheap garden furniture. Low standards for what they consider to be quality entertainment and living conditions for their children.

Even I must admit that some of the children would be better off on the streets.

But having a workspace? Magnificent. My dressing room is personalized, my equipment, costumes and wares placed in designated areas and my dressing routine refined to its apex. Everything is streamlined, everything is orderly.

Once again, a longer break is always beneficial.

But sooner still am I prepared for my next showing, and so the show must go on.

Also, unlike previous roles, presentation benefits from having an actual stage assigned to my performances. In-depth preparations can be made; staff can be communicated with and a curtain is raised upon my announcement. No more hiding behind a closed door until the parents are ready.

They come to me, on my time. And the so-called fun begins when I am ready.

“All good to go, Abi?”

“Yes, Treacle,” I reply. I gave up demanding my full name weeks ago. “Is light four working yet?”

“… For now, no,” she says, a frustrated grimace clawing up her face. “Tech Set won’t be in until three and we’re not allowed to mess with the lights. Not after last time.”

Having a head waitress – or any untrained staff, for that matter – forced to fix the lighting would likely be worse than simply waiting it out. Nor would it be entirely smart for an employer to risk an injury and the ensuing lawsuit.

“Rather useful for our recording requirements.”

“Yeah, isn’t it just.”

Today’s show is to be livestreamed on the company website in aid of a local charity and recorded for future promotional material. A rather simple undertaking but it also defeats the need for hiring multiple filming crews for a similar show in the future. Even one show holds enough material to offer variety for a set of advertisements.

“But we have a full house! Mom’s new tarts are going down well!”

Too sweet of my liking, but well crafted, I will give her that. “Revenue is on the rise, then.” As will be the tips.

I was not asking a question, but Treacle Heart seems insistent on treating it as one. “Yup! That’s down to you too, Abi. Food brings them in, but a good performance keeps them sat down!” Overly friendly as she is, she is well suited to her role and quick to assist if anything unfortunate requires attention. Another bonus to having a permanent location. Mistakes are handled by the entire team, not just myself.

I do not tolerate failure… but when issues do arise, the staff at Maple’s House make them almost tolerable.

“And more sitting down means more drinks!”

Indeed, it does. And more snacks for the parents chatting idly whilst their children take in the performance.

Much like her mother, she is also very business orientated. Even after my outfit commission from Rarity, I still doubted that Maple and Treacle could be anything but a happy-go-lucky family coasting by on good advertising.

How wrong I was, and for once I am glad for it.

“Two minutes, Abi. I’ll cue the music in a sec. The crew are already getting footage so just do as you do, and we’ll be set.”

Music tells the audience the show is about to begin, and me that I must get into position. I stand prepared regardless, my presentation memorized to the second. When the music starts, my practiced smile is already prepared for extended use.

I breathe deeply as the loudspeaker flares to life, Treacle’s sweet voice sounding out under a light static. “Whoa! There’s that music again! That can only mean one thing. What time is it?”

Then the roar of tiny children and their guardians. “Time for Cinchy!”

There are regulars, of course. The odd child that has yet to be captured by the blight of tablets and videogames. But the majority are little things riddled with sugar and soda. A few servers reminding them of the upcoming show every few minutes will hype up any child tackled with that combination.

“The music is pretty loud, guys. Let’s make sure she can hear us! What time is it?”

_“Time for Cinchy!”_

Showtime.

The music suddenly changes, sounding out a new tune as the sounds of a speeding car echo through the main hall. Then the screech of tires before the sounds fade, following two sets of speakers as the others grow quiet.

“Well, she’s certainly here now. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. It’s Time for Cinchy!”

The final entrance track plays as the curtains part. The lighting above me adapts to the change in natural sunlight as my world expands. No longer am I stood alone on a dim stage, surrounded by minor props and labelled switches just out of audience view.

Now I stand in a restaurant with twenty-six tables, each filled with wet little eyes and a mess of cake and batter.

And so, I raise my hands in the air. A chorus of eager cheers and clapping little hands greets me and my time in spotlight begins.

“That was cutting it close! When I asked my taxi to get me as close to work as possible, I didn’t think he’d get me that close!”

Somewhere above me, Drum Roll presses a button on his soundboard and a honking horn sounds from the same speakers as the retreating car.

“Thank you!” I reply. The charade is simple, and none but a child would believe it. “Drive safely!” But it works, nonetheless.

Another horn, a peppy set of two toots and I face my audience. It’s a bizarre feeling, to have an audience. These people that pay to see me make an utter fool of myself. Even more that there exists a role where the main feature is to make a fool of oneself.

But my act remains enjoyed, much as I sometimes wish it was not. That means payment, and with each new positive review, my stature grows.

For as little a stature as being a clown brings, it is a stature, nonetheless. And I will find a way to use it. Favors from local families and small businesses have already proven worthwhile. A dress made by a friend of Pinkamena, likewise.

We shall see where it gets me in the future

But thought of the future is irrelevant if I cannot act in the here and now. Tolerating a job is one thing, but to perform it well? That must come first.

Always.

In the brief second that I have to spare, I search the audience. I look for birthday balloons, waving children, parents pointing urging the shyest to try and wave, even though they never will. All things I can respond to, all aspects of the performance I can use to make it more interactive. I see the cameras, my mind clear on the notion to never look at them. Footage of that sort can be captured later.

My eye for detail has not diminished since my departure from Crystal Prep, and it is something I have over competition.

No birthdays today, but that goes along with the schedule. I wave and… blow kisses to those wanting the attention. “Well, aren’t we busy, busy, busy today! I do hope you’re all being good and having–

A glance to the far side of the room gives me pause enough to let my blood run cold. The restaurant is catered towards children, but that doesn’t stop the more immature adults from frequenting the place for food. Much like a fast food restaurant, it attracts a certain clientele.

Older adults on their own would look out of place, but teenagers? No.

These teenagers, I recognize, however.

Pinkamena.

Twilight Sparkle.

Lemon Zest and Indigo Zap.

Each of them staring with the same degree of raptured attention, only one with a completely innocent glee in her pink little features.

As is her usual when she brings guests to the venue, Pinkamena stands and waves. Usually, she brings _children_ , not her cohorts.

I realize my act has come to a sudden stop, and I get back on track. I take advantage of the pause and take in a deep breath. “I hope you’re all having fun, fun, fun!”

More cheers, more clapping. Warm, happy faces.

For the first time in weeks, I feel a cold chill run down the entirety of my spine.

But the show must – it absolutely _must_ go on. I am live, I am being recorded. My current reputation cannot falter. Doing so will make everything; the humiliation, the mockery worth nothing.

My composure restores, if only at face value.

“And we can’t have fun, fun, fun without more fun to make it even _better!_ ”

And so, it begins. As great as my skills are, the majority of children prefer it when things go wrong. Juggling fake props and letting them hit me on the head. Throwing messy foodstuff and getting caught in the ensuring chaos.

Balloons animals are one of the few exceptions. When they go wrong, all you have is a childish noise and popped shapes.

Yet, they find it amusing, nonetheless.

Then you have larger props; bicycles, kitchen sets, small toys and scenery. You have trampolines and more food and more mess and all the other silly things that only those without a handful of braincells will find funny.

But it pays, it has given me recognition and it is a ladder with which I can slowly climb. Entertainment is a large industry and breaking into it should not be seen as a failure. No matter how I may get there.

As always, Pinkamena cheers jubilantly along with the children. As much as I despised her in the beginning, she has grown into something not uncomfortable. Her praise is genuine, and her interests offer genuine critique if she feels I require it, yet she is not derogatory whilst doing so. As childish as she is, she knows what children like and has the mental capacity to accurately explain why.

She is as useful she is irritating, which is no longer as irksome as it once was.

I have seen little of her other friends. Rarity was kind enough to accept my costume commission, despite her misgivings. Pinkamena was all that was required to get her on side.

In that regard, Pinkamena is most especially useful. Appreciated, even. I have seen little to no _magic_ in her presence, but perhaps even that could be put to use in the future, so long as I keep her on side.

Magic would certainly get me further in the world.

But for the time being, my aptitude for faux humiliation is forced to grow.

“Now, where did I put my bouquet of flowers. I know I had it around her somewhere…”

A simple misdirection and I place the bouquet at the back of my costume, stuffed inside the baggy pants. I turn around and show the children as much.

“Where oh _where_ could it be?”

There comes a chorus of voices.

_“It’s behind you!”_

_“It’s in your pants!”_

_“It’s there, it’s right there!”_

And then there’s always Pinkamena. “You have flowers on your butt!”

Only now, I feel her stare as something distracting. I know she’s there, and I know she’s there with _others_. With former students of mine.

Most glaringly Twilight Sparkle.

Her presence irks me the most. Is she here for revenge? Some form of mental torture, a reminder of what I’ve done and how far I’ve fallen?

Or perhaps she has even brought magic here to throw back in my face.

I turn around. “Behind me? But I don’t see any flowers.”

More screams, more cries of, _“They’re on your back, silly Cinchy!”_ and a whole manner of soundalikes.

“Where?”

_“There!”_

I spin, and spin and spin and spin like a feral dog chasing its tail until I grab them. “Oh, yes! Here’s my flowers. They’re _ever_ so lovely.” I smell them.

I bend them in such a way that the immediately wilt and die in my grasp. Drum is on point as always and a sound of a flute singing from a high to low pitch sounds out into the audience.

It goes down better than usual, the youngest children laughing at the noise alone as everyone else takes a good chuckle at my expense. It’s is a simple enough trick, but one that proves useful to fill in the time.

“Oh dear…”

But thankfully, the finale swiftly approaches. Only a few more acts and I finally utter the fabled words. “But that’s nearly all for today!” I cheer, genuinely enthusiastic. I’m met with a chorus of sad cries. “Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll be fine. I just need to get packed.”

I don’t, but the illusion is required. Small props and items thrown haphazardly into the suitcase I arrived with. Very few are used in the show itself, but it helps keep the children involved in the world I create for them.

But then comes the pies.

“Cinchy! I have your order ready.”

My final act has remained largely unchanged since I began; have someone fetch pies and making a large mess with them at my own expense. I had chosen it for simplicity, but it has never failed. Out of all the acts I have tried, it is one of the few that most children react favorably to, regardless of maturity or indeed a decent moral compass.

Children just enjoy seeing adults behave like children.

But for the stage, I chose to evolve it. What better choice was there than to have the staff at the restaurants bring my pies to me? One that has a chance of serving those same children if the day gets too busy for the casual staff to control.

It doesn’t even take up much of her time. Even on a busy night, she needs only two or three minutes to prep her microphone and fetch the props. It is the same when she announces my show.

I feign gleeful surprise as Treacle carries with her a tray, seven cream cakes balanced in a tower. The paper straws inside keep it haphazardly together, just enough to fool those who don’t look hard enough.

Or most people here, now that I consider it.

And as usual, Treacle trips. She flips the tray, pushing it outwards as the cakes fling themselves towards me.

I try to catch them. I always do. Catching even one limits the sticky mess I must clean out of my skin when the show is over. But, also as always, the majority hit me in the torso, and I allow myself to fall down with them.

Cream.

Floor.

_Mess._

Treacle feigns a frantic apology and I am left to question every choice in my life that brought me to where I am… until I stand up and wipe myself down. The floor is coated in cream and several patches of jam. Sticky as it can become, the whole thing feels like a safety hazard waiting to kill me.

The sooner I finish up, the sooner I can retire for the day. Saturday only holds two shows, and then there’s little to stop me leaving for home and taking a well-deserved bath.

“A little too much cream,” I say, gesturing to my clothes.

“Sorry Cinchy!”

A part of Treacle always does seem to feel genuine remorse for covering me in cream, but it is as part of her job as the humiliation is a part of mine. If I can endure, so can she.

The children laugh at my joke regardless, and clapping ensues once more. Treacle takes a quick bow before making her leave. The next children she serves are always excitable, and the parents eager to please for the effort of interacting with their little family.

Not always more sales, but a happier atmosphere raises the potential.

But that marks the end. Parents know it, their eyes always on the time, and I announce it to everyone else. “Time for me to go!” Another horn from the speakers, a peppy couple of notes. “It sounds like my ride is here!”

More clapping, but then something new out of the din. Lemon Zest stands from her chair, the presence of her group almost gone from my mind but now dragged back like a screaming child. “Do a dance for us, Cinch!”

I certainly think not.

But then some children scream in response. “Yeah! Do a dance!”

They ask for the same. It evolves into a small cheer as the children clap over and over, growing into a chant as some parents cringe into their hands and other covers the faces.

Lemon and Indigo cackle in their little corner, their smiles considerably fouler than the innocence of Pinkamena.

The pink fool cheers along with the children regardless.

All the while Twilight sits with a pained expression that I can’t quite place. Her eyes meet mine for a moment, before they’re forced back to her little table.

A brief glace off stage presents a Treacle with something similar, only I recognize hers all too well.

She mouths ‘sorry’ with an apologetic expression, shrugging her shoulder in an effort to do anything at all. She knows she can’t lower the curtain now, not with audience participation so loud. It would generate a pointless negative energy that the business could do without.

She raises a finger.

_One dance._

My makeup hides most expressions I could hope to make, but I’m especially grateful it masks the scowl stretching up my cheeks.

_Do a dance for us, Cinch!_

Fine.

I don’t even vocalize an affirmation. I jig from left to right, shifting my body around like some drunken hillbilly. It is made all the more awkward in my oversized novelty shoes. They were not made for elegant movement.

The chanting stops and the cheering returns, and I can see an end in sight.

My former students, less so. They continue to laugh at my expense, no doubt getting some perverse thrill out of my torture. We’ll see who’s laughing when–

My shoe slips.

I realize a moment too late that I haven’t moved from atop the cream. My foot comes away from under me and my balance along with it. I move in a new dance, something terrifyingly eclectic as I attempt to maintain my balance on one foot, then the other, then the other, then the other and the other until I might as well be sliding across wet ice.

As the cheering overtakes my senses, I find my balance shifting away from me entirely. Both feet come away from under my body and I’m suddenly on my side.

Then my other side, before I hear a loud gasp and I’m on the thin-carpeted floor beneath the small stage. Something hard grinds against my stomach on the way down, though in the moment I can’t even begin to fathom what.

Fix it, is all I can think. _Fix it._

Save it.

I’m on my feet again before I can think, looking out to the audience. There’s a deathly silence as they all stare at me, the children with their eyes wide and the adults filled with concern.

The table in front me is on its side, but I ignore it. “I-I’m okay!” I catch my voice, sure no one will notice the stutter–

A family a few tables away looks above me and, on instinct I follow them.

I look up just in time to see several of Maple Syrup’s new tarts falling towards my face, and a moment too late to begin pulling out of the way.

They’re light things, and in the moment, all I can do is stand there and take it. It’s sticky, its unpleasant, it is going to be murder trying to clean the sauce of my hair as I feel it seep beneath the elastic of the wig.

My jaw clenches tight and I can already tell my expression would curdle fresh milk if I were to concentrate on it. I feel a burning in my gut that just urges me to get back at the little brats on their little table. I can still hear a few laughs from one end, and with voices I recognize all too well.

Though… not Pinkamena.

Or Twilight for that matter.

But I can save this. You can always save humiliation.

It’s part of my job.

With all the rage of a gorilla trying to thread a needle, I wipe a finger across my cheek and taste the sweet concoction that Maple calls food. I force a guffaw up my throat and giggle in the aftermath. “I think I’ll stick to my cream cakes!”

The adults, they remain concerned. But with a smile on my face and a joke to go with it, the children are appeased. I wipe the rest dramatically from my eyes, flaunting each and every moment until it stretches to the point of absurdity just to be sure.

But the laughter continues, and that works for now.

I can deal with the livestream and the hooligans from Crystal Prep when I’m away from all of this nonsense.

“I think you should get yourself cleaned up before we send you off, Cinchy!” I hear Treacle say from her spot. Drum Roll honks the car horn again, and the show is back on track to finish on time. “Say goodbye, kids!”

They do, and I’m forced to dance and smile my way back onto the stage until the curtain finally pulls over me. In the final seconds, I glare over to Pinkamena’s table. The two runts are still laughing, clutching their sides.

Pinkamena is tinged with something like worry.

And I still can’t tell what Twilight is thinking at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Home is my only focus now, and with my costume prepared for cleaning and my supplies all packed in their place, I have little reason to stay away any longer. Even more so, when one considers how far from the scheduled performance todays little escapade managed to veer.

Some might have considered it a happy accident, given the compliments I gained from several of the parents. The growing bruise at my hip only goes to make it a failure, and one that was livestreamed to several thousand children in their homes.

Maple will be keeping a recording of tonight’s performance on file, too. Perhaps I shall end up in a workplace accident video. Or worse, have my grand finale actually used to promote my act.

I cannot decide which is worse; being used as an example of poor behavior, or having my poor behavior used as an example of my work.

If only those rotten brats hadn’t stuck their little noses in. Pinkamena can be a handful at the best of time but bringing foreign bodies into my territory was never a part of our working relationship. I shall be having words for her, if she wishes to continue working with ‘a real lady clown’. The fact that she wants to spend time helping me with my act at all implies she enjoys it, and that will prove a far more useful bargaining chip than just sending her on her merry way.

The rest of them I would be happy to avoid for the rest of my life.

Leaving through the staff door at the back of the building even gives me the impression that I might not have to… until a small voice calls out to me.

“Principa– ah, Finch,” Twilight Sparkle calls. I consider unlocking my car and ignoring her, but as she steps closer that option is all but lost to me. “Miss Finch?”

And how kind of her to remind me of past failures. “Twilight Sparkle. How goes your education?” Now that you’ve entirely wasted it.

“Good! Good. I’ve, uh… been making lots of friends. I’m top of most of my classes.”

In that school, I’m surprised you haven’t replaced the teachers.

But at the same time, she is not the boastful sort, not really. She has a pride in her accomplishments, but she does not relish the chance to push that success upon someone else. A pity; she would go far with only the slightest bit more backbone.

And with _magic friends and love_ I’m surprised she even bothers with school at all. Accolades and Noble Prizes untold would be hers if she only took the chance.

But she doesn’t. She squanders her time at Canterlot High School and travels with Pinkamena to watch a performance intended for children.

On that note…

“I can only assume you have a reason to speak with me. I can’t think why else a girl of your mental fortitude would waste her time at a place like this.”

Or any adult without children, for that matter.

“Pinkie said you were working here now and… I wanted to see how you were doing. See your show.”

“How kind of you to bring two other students along with you in an attempt to ruin it, then. I am absolutely delighted you all decided to drop by.”

My car feels further away than ever, and all I wish to do is get inside and drive away. Leave this ridiculous little girl behind.

Her face becomes more active, more pronounced as she cringes into herself. “Yeah… I’m sorry about Lemon and Indigo. Pinkie wasn’t too happy with them either, if that’s any consolation.”

“Hardly,” I reply, simply.

“I’m telling the truth when I said I was curious. I thought they were too, but I misjudged the situation a little. But they’re sorry too,” she adds. I hardly think so, but Twilight continues. “You probably don’t believe me, right?”

“Correct.”

“But I _was_ just curious. I wanted to see wat you were doing now. You know… after the whole… Friendship Games. Thing.”

“I seem to remember a girl attempting to tear holes in the fabric of reality because she wasn’t getting her way, if that is what you mean by ‘the whole Friendship Games thing’.”

Something less friendly spreads up onto her face, now. Something less shy, something less weary of this creature that she used to know. And I can tell from where it begins; she recognizes the creature and finds something in it she is no longer afraid of.

In all honesty, I do not know how to feel about Twilight Sparkle. Not because of her abilities, or her academic achievements, but because she is a point of data that I can no longer predict. She has shifted radically from the pupil under my control, and I no longer have any idea how to deal with someone like her.

… The magical abilities likely also play a small part, as much as I tell myself that they don’t.

“But so too do I recognize the part I played in said events. If you can’t already tell, punishment was swift in the weeks after.”

She settles. Not completely, but enough that pleasant conversation resumes. “I heard from Cadence. Another reason I was surprised that you were a clown now, of all things.”

“One can’t be too greedy when job market is so empty. I had little choice in the matter.”

“But you’ve made good work of it though, right? Pinkie says you used to just do parties, but now you have a whole show to yourself.”

… I suppose that is indeed a worthwhile step up. Even to the everyman, it sounds vaguely impressive. I no longer feel such an intense need to hide my career path, not when I have more than house visits to show for it.

“Your… _Pinkamena_ was rather helpful. She has a good mindset for appealing to children.”

“Oh, believe me. I know all about Pinkie’s mindset. She can be a bit much.”

As charming as this isn’t, a casual chat with Twilight Sparkle was not something I had planned for my evening. Not when I can go home to rest. “Is there a particular matter you wish to discuss? If not, I would much rather be getting on my way.”

A sigh leaves her lips. “Yeah, there’s a reason. I just wanted to congratulate you, I guess.”

… Pardon? “Congratulate me? For what possible reason?” My own show, perhaps. It is all that dares cross my mind.

“On doing what you’re doing. You’re making kids laugh and showing them a little bit of magic. Making their lives a little brighter instead of just teaching them how they need to live.”

“I’m a clown, not a magician.”

“But the tricks you do might as well be magic to some of them. I’m not sure how you feel about magic after everything that happened–” I feel very little. “–but what you’re doing is good. Really good. And I’m proud of you for going with it. Especially now that you’ve just made it clear you clearly want to give it up.”

“Some of us don’t have the option of walking away, Twilight.”

But in her words, there is something warm. It spreads through my chest, if only slightly. Enough to let me know that it’s there.

It’s a pride that I haven’t felt in a long time. Not of my own but given freely by someone who should in all likelihood want nothing to do with me. I do not feel guilt, but I do recognize that my actions were foolish. Rash, perhaps.

Enough that my own situation is partially down to me, as is Twilight’s current state. If not for my push, she would not have delved so far into magic.

And we would both likely still be at Crystal Prep, where we’re meant to be.

“But I also recognize that I am the reason you had to do so.” And the pride she gave so openly switches something in me, just for a moment. “And for that I apologize.”

Not for everything; I did what was in the school’s best interest… but even I know that the final act of the Friendship games is something I regret. What has happened since could have been so different if I had played the game ever so slightly differently.

I might as well repair bridges, if it means getting all of Pinkamena’s cohorts on side. That is what I tell myself, at least.

“It’s okay,” is all she says in response.

I must admit, I look at her with incredulous eyes. “’Okay’? Is that all you have to say?”

Another simple answer. “I think so, yes.” But my face clearly entices explanation. “You hurt me for a long time, and that made me hurt my friends. But you’re doing good. You’re making people laugh and you’re working with Pinkie to make sure you get even better at it.”

.. Nonsense. It is for the money. I do not _need_ to make myself better to entertain children. I need to improve my show to improve my standing.

A standing where, though? With business?

Or the audience?

“And Rarity helped you, too. You’re making a good go of all this, and I kind of think that’s amazing.”

Amazing.

… Right.

“I’ll let you get going,” she finishes. Only then do I realize that I haven’t responded to her. “That’s all I wanted to say. That, and good luck!” Her smile is the brightest I’ve seen, in all the years that I’ve known her. “I know you’re going to be the _best_ clown. I can feel it!”

And then she’s gone, walking from the parking lot with only the slightest glance back. A small wave before she rounds a corner, and I’m once more left with my car, ready to leave this place.

Home.

Home, once again, takes all my interest. At least, I wish it to.

Twilight’s words linger in my ears, ringing to a pleasant tune I did not know I could enjoy. It warms me again, in a different way to that pride she offered. This feeling of well-wishing and her hopes for my future.

I will climb out of this into something greater. Perhaps a larger scale of show, or a new brand of entertainment,

But with Twilight Sparkle’s words fueling that vision, it does not feel quite so sharp an idea as it once did. It feels a little lighter in my heart.

I shake the thoughts away as I climb into my car, turning on the ignition as I make my way out into the relative quiet of the afternoon streets. Cars are sparse, that lull between morning and evening separating me from the fools stuck in their offices.

As I round a corner before my route home, I pass by Twilight Sparkle again. She does not see me, but I make out the gentle smile resting on her face, as if she is relieved from some burden I cannot see.

As I focus on the road, I feel that same smile settles on my lips. No burden has been lifted from my shoulders. Not entirely.

But it does still feel that little bit lighter.


End file.
